Revenge of the Zeds

by Stewart Ross

  “Those dumbmans are trouble,” said Jinsha, pointing at the Grozny ambling along in front of them.

  Giv looked up to see one of his men making obscene gestures behind Yalisha’s back. His colleagues roared with laughter and repeated the gestures with gusto.

  “Volebrains, do you want to be bonefingers?” shouted Giv. The Grozny nudged each other and stopped their horseplay for a while. When it restarted, shortly before midday, it took an altogether uglier form. The Zed on the right of the column, unable to control himself any longer, made a sudden lunge at the Kogon ahead of him, pulled her to the ground and began clawing at her leather clothing.

  Yalisha, hearing the woman’s shouts of protest, spun round and thrust her lance into the man’s neck, killing him instantly. The column swiftly disintegrated into a vicious melee of stabbing and hacking. A blow from a heavy iron club smashed open the head of the first woman to be attacked, and the stomach of another on Yalisha’s left was torn by a swinging gut-ripper. Moments later, three Grozny were bleeding heavily from deep wounds inflicted by Kogon spears.

  To the astonishment of everyone, not least himself, Giv’s prompt action saved the embassy from annihilation. He fell into a sort of trance immediately the fight broke out. He undid the rope that held the wooden box on his back, lowered it to the ground, lifted out the blackened totem and raised it above his head. When he spoke – he had no idea how – it was not with his own voice but with Timur’s. The effect was mesmerising.

  “Ratpizzles!” he screamed in the high-pitched tones familiar to every Grozny. “What is this dunghead behaviour? Throw down your weapons, weasel-scum, before I peel off your skin for shoes!”

  The fight stopped at once. The astonished combatants lowered their weapons to the sandy ground and looked sheepishly around at the damage they had caused. Two of the Kogon warriors were already dead and a third was dying of her wounds. As only one Grozny had been killed outright, it looked as if the men had come off better. But three of them were losing so much blood they couldn’t continue. Jinsha ordered them to leave at once. Giv gave his consent and the men limped off unsteadily towards the forest. All three died before they reached the shelter of the trees.

  The embassy had shrunk to five: three Kogon and two Grozny. Nonetheless, what it had lost in size, it had gained in unity. Even Jinsha and Yalisha respected Giv: walking in their midst was a dumbman so clever he could assume the form of one who had died. He was not just guardian of the head – he was guardian of its spirit, too. Inside Captain Giv, Timur the Terrible lived on.

  Back in Alba, Sammy’s suggestion that Cyrus could cure Jalus had tested his friend’s patience to the limit. “What on earth did you say that for?” he fumed when they were alone in the empty Ghasar. “Your big mouth has wrecked the whole mission!” His face contorted with waves of anger and frustration.

  Sammy was genuinely taken aback. “What you talking about, Cyrus?” he protested, forgetting the correct grammar he had learned recently. “Course you can cure him! You cured me, easy as shooting rabbits – and I had a great hole in my leg. All that’s wrong with Jalus is a bit of the shivers.”

  “Bit of the shivers?” cried Cyrus. “You just don’t get it, do you?”

  “Course I do! If I hadn’t come up with my plan, Bahm would’ve put a stop to everything. Then where’d we be?”

  “Same as we are now.”

  “Come on, Cyrus! Don’t be so hard on me. You’ve got a chance to put a stop to Bahm’s nonsense once and for all.”

  “It’s Yash, too. And you’ve given them an even better chance of ending our mission, Sammy.”

  “So it’s up to you to make sure you win out.” Sammy’s face softened. “I meaned it, Cyrus, I really did. I’ve seen everything you’ve done – well, almost all of it – and I reckon there’s nothing you can’t do if you sets your mind to it. Nothing.”

  Cyrus rubbed his hands over his face. “I don’t have much choice, do I? Cure Jalus or say goodbye to the Soterion.” Sammy nodded. “Right, I’d better go and see if there’s something I can do to help the lad. I doubt it, though.”

  “You might doubt it,” Sammy grinned, “but I don’t!”

  “Fool!” muttered Cyrus, giving the young man a friendly slap on the shoulder. “Come on! Let’s go and find Jalus.”

  Even before he entered the room in which Jalus lay, Cyrus knew from the smell what was wrong with the boy. Diarrhoea. The vile, dehydrating illness was the scourge of both Constant and Zed alike. It swept through settlements and tribes, disabling adults and killing scores of children. Because it was known to be highly infectious, Alban victims of more than two winters were immediately isolated in the Alone, a small wooden hut high among the terraces above the Soterion Gate. Sufferers were left with drinking water, a foul-smelling toilet bucket and hay with which to clean themselves. Twice a day, an archer carried the bucket away to be emptied and replenished the water. The chances of recovery were slight.

  Telling Sammy and Corby to remain outside, Cyrus took a deep breath and opened the door of the Alone. A glance around the room told him all he needed. His heart sank. Jalus, naked and covered in sweat, lay on a low bed with a curtain of long black hair plastered across his yellow brow and cheek. His eyelids barely flicked when Cyrus gently stroked his head and whispered his name. One day at the most, Cyrus thought. Glancing at the toilet bucket on the way out, he noticed flecks of blood floating on the surface. He groaned inwardly. No, not even a day. The boy was doomed.

  “Well?” asked Sammy as Cyrus emerged into the fresh air. “How can we make him better?”

  “We can’t. He’ll probably be dead by nightfall.”

  Sammy shook his head. “Without us even trying? He wouldn’t die if the Long Dead was here to look after him. Come on! You can find out what they’d do, can’t you? It’ll be in that Aid book.”

  Where does this fellow’s optimism come from? Cyrus wondered. Looking into Sammy’s open face, he knew he couldn’t let him down. However grim the chances, he had to try.

  As quickly and carefully as possible, he explained to Sammy what he had learned of contamination and the importance of cleanliness. He instructed him to carry Jalus out of the stinking hut, lie him in the shade, wash him thoroughly all over and persuade him to drink as much as possible. It might be a good idea to keep Corby away from him, too. Meanwhile, he would run back to the Soterion and see if there was anything in First Aid and Basic Medicine that might help.

  To his surprise, on the way down the terraces, Cyrus met Miouda coming in the opposite direction. She knew how desperate the situation was and wondered if she could help.

  “Thanks, Miouda. Thanks so much!” Cyrus panted. “Just go up there and boil water! Anyhow, anywhere – and as much as you can get hold of.” Miouda nodded and turned to continue up the slope.

  “No, wait! Throw away what’s left in the water jug. It’s filthy! Then get Jalus to drink as much of the water you’ve boiled as you can. Wash him in it, too.”

  “Right. But where’re you off to, Cyrus? Aren’t you needed up there?” She pointed to the hut.

  “It’ll be alright now you’re here. I need to get down to the Ghasar and see what that first aid book says about Jalus’ illness.”

  With an affectionate squeeze of his friend’s hand, Cyrus was off down the slope again, calling over his shoulder, “And while you’re about it, wash Sammy as well! He’s bound to have got muck all over him!”

  The terraces were deep in shadow by the time he had finished searching out references to diarrhoea in his first aid book. Struggling with the technical vocabulary and cursing when most of the treatments suggested medicines he couldn’t possibly get hold of, he finally worked out a strategy. Hurrying out of the Ghasar, he grabbed an armful of fruits from the nearest storeroom and set out for the Alone.

  He was astonished at the transformation his friends had brought about. Jalus lay on a bed of fresh straw beside the hut. His physical appearance had changed little, though he was cleaner and t
he hair had been combed off his forehead. Miouda knelt at his side, alternately wiping his brow with a damp cloth and trying to get him to take sips of water from the cup she held to his lips. Bowls of boiled water were arranged on a low terrace wall nearby. A little further off, Sammy and other members of Cyrus’ Soterion class were tending a blazing fire over which water bubbled in an iron pot. Corby, upright and alert, sat on the terrace above and surveyed the whole scene like a sentry.

  Miouda looked up as Cyrus approached. No change, she mouthed. He turned to give instructions to the small group of helpers. Jalus was dying of dehydration. Somehow they had to get liquid, clean liquid, inside him. Fruit juice was best, together with water. Leaving Sammy and his helpers to squeeze juice into bowls washed with boiled water, he began scouring the terraces. When he had found a suitable hollow reed, he gave Sammy his instructions, rinsed his hands in boiled water and knelt beside Jalus on the opposite side to Miouda.

  The sick boy’s tongue was black and swollen, making it impossible for him to swallow. After Miouda had raised his head so he wouldn’t choke, Cyrus carefully pushed the boy’s tongue to one side and inserted the reed into his mouth. He made a funnel with his hands and held it over the top of the reed. When all was ready, Sammy poured a mixture of juice and water into Cyrus’ cupped hands.

  At first nothing happened. Then, very slowly, the mixture drained down the straw. Jalus coughed and Miouda adjusted the reed so the liquid went down his throat and not into his windpipe.

  The treatment continued throughout the night. Although Jalus had to be carried over to the bucket twice more before dawn, his fever subsided and by first light he was sleeping soundly. Shortly afterwards, having heard what was going on, Yash and Bahm climbed up to the Alone and stood watching in silence.

  By nightfall on the second day, Jalus was out of danger. He slept most of the time. When he awoke, he was able to speak and drink unassisted. The treatment of the Long Dead had worked.

  As the patient was finally being carried back to the settlement, Cyrus walked wearily over to Sammy and Miouda. “We did it!” he gasped, throwing his arms round them and holding them close. With tears in his eyes, he thanked them with all his heart.

  “We’ve saved the Soterion!” grinned Miouda, holding on to Cyrus as tightly as he held her.

  “Not just us,” said Sammy. “The Long Dead. We couldn’t have done it without them, could we?”

  Cyrus laughed. “Of course not. And they’ve proved to us, to everyone, why we must go on and on until we have made a brave new world out of the ruins of the old one.” Letting go of his companions, he turned to the fire. “And as a sign, watch!”

  He strode over to the fire, pulled out a blazing branch and held it to the wall of the Alone. Soon the filthy wooden hut was burning fiercely.

  “There!” he cried as he watched the flames rise into the night sky. “An end to dirt and ignorance!”

  Malik Ogg opened one eye and grunted. Something was not right. The sky was clear, the stars were bright, around him the Gurkov lay sleeping… But all was not well. There was an unusual noise. He propped himself up on one elbow and listened. From his left came the whimpering of a breeding slave. He couldn’t have been woken by such routine snivelling, he told himself. Must be something else. Ah! What was that? There was another sound, a new and different one. It wasn’t the wind and it wasn’t an animal…

  Ogg rose, grasped his sword firmly in his right hand, and sniffed. There was no unusual scent to give him a clue. Still the noise went on. A sort of moaning whisper, it came from the trees directly in front of him. Cautiously, he moved closer and stood listening to the beckoning tones floating out of the darkness. “Maliko!” they seemed to say. “Maliko.”

  As he peered into the gloom, a flickering light appeared. He gripped his sword tighter and advanced a couple of steps. All of a sudden, he realised what the sound was. Someone was calling his name. “Malik Ogg,” it chanted in a strange, high-pitched voice. “Malik Ogg.”

  “Yes?” he answered, keeping his voice low so as not to wake any of his tribesmen. Whatever was going on, it was for him alone and he didn’t want any stone-headed Gurkov blundering in on it.

  “Advance and look on me!”

  Ogg did as he was told. He was a straightforward, blunt man without a smidgeon of imagination in all his Z-stamped body. Nevertheless, he was intrigued. The light, a crude candle that Jinsha had brought with her, was something he had never seen before. Of much greater interest was what hung above it: a blackened head suspended by its hair from an overhanging branch. In the flickering darkness, it looked as if the head itself was speaking.

  “Listen carefully, Malik Ogg,” the voice continued. “I am Over-Malik Timur the Terrible. I bring you great news. The time of the Zeds has come. We are gathering together to make a great army. We will crush the Constants and all their riches and knowledge will be ours. Soon Zeds will rule the world.”

  Ogg scratched his head. He was no fool, but all this ruling the world business stretched his understanding to its limits – and beyond. “And Ogg,” he muttered, “what does Ogg do?”

  “Join our army, great Ogg. Three in one: I will bring together the Zeds of Grozny, Gurkov and Kogon.”

  Ogg stared suspiciously at the shimmering head. He’d never heard of the Kogon – who were they? “Maybe,” he responded. “And if I don’t?”

  “If you do not join, Ogg, the fury of Timur will fall upon you. His revenge will be terrible.”

  Ogg gave an uncertain snort.

  “But if you join with me,” the head continued in more flattering tones, “I will reward you. Ogg will have his desire.”

  “Desire?” echoed the Malik as he struggled to come to terms with the head’s sudden shift of mood.

  “Timur knows your wishes, Ogg. The Over-Malik understands your deep desires. This is what you want, isn’t it?” As the voice was speaking, two female forms slipped seductively into the candlelight, one on either side of the head. Both were naked.

  Ogg gasped and took a step forward.

  “Wait!” commanded the voice. “Feast your eyes! If you follow me, these slaves are yours – they and as many others as there are trees in the forest. All as soft as doe skin and as smooth as milk! Look on them, Ogg! Dream on them! Tomorrow my man Giv will come to you and explain all. These slaves will then be for you, just you. Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow …”

  As the voice faded, the candle blew out and the bewildered Malik heard a rustling in the dark ahead of him. When he went to investigate, the totem had gone.

  But the images in his head burned on. Timur, the mightiest Zed of all, had spoken to him. What an honour to fight with him! Together the Grozny and the Gurkov would be unstoppable!

  Ogg stumbled back to his sleeping place, lay down and closed his eyes. Timur and succulent slave bodies – it was almost more than he could manage. “Oh come, tomorrow!” he panted. “Come! Come! Come!”

  7

  In the Dark

  Sleep, which normally fell upon Jamshid like a hammer, did not come easily. What go wrong? he asked himself again and again. Timur tell Jamshid attack; Jamshid attack; Jamshid’s men die. Why?

  The question nagged away in the Grand Malik’s ponderous brain all the way back to Filna. As he entered the forest that cloaked the ruined town, he stopped and leaned heavily against a tree. What sort of reception awaited him? The old Timur rewarded failure with harsh punishment. How would the new Timur, the Over-Malik, react? He had ordered Jamshid to lead an assault on Alba, hadn’t he? And the mysterious Malika had agreed, saying Jamshid’s role was very important.

  He lifted his fur cap and scratched angrily at his lice-ridden scalp. Something was not right. He didn’t know what it was, but he was starting to wonder whether it might involve Malika Xsani. She couldn’t possibly be deceiving Timur, could she? There was only one way to find out. With a final rub of his head, Jamshid replaced his hat and set off again into the forest.

  Immediately the Eyes spo
tted him, they informed Xsani, who ordered him to be brought to her before he made contact with his fellow Grozny.

  “Tho you have returned,” she began when the burly Zed was kneeling before her on the balcony. “Alone, I thee. What happened?”

  Jamshid explained, to the best of his limited ability, how he had obeyed Timur’s orders and attacked Alba. Xsani raised a quizzical eyebrow when she heard how his force had marched out into open ground and been shot down like sheep. In future operations, she decided, the Grozny would have no task involving either strategy or skill.

  “And how did Jamthid ethcape?” she asked.

  The Grand Malik twisted his hands anxiously, expecting a blow or stab. He ran away, he confessed – but only so he could fight again.

  “You ran away?” With a wave of the hand, Xsani ordered her bodyguard to come over and stand in a silent circle round him. For a while the quiet of the afternoon was broken only by birdsong and the sound of urine trickling down Jamshid’s legs, soaking into the hem of his fur coat and gathering in a pool about his knees. The Malika wrinkled her nose in disgust.

  “Are you afraid of me, Malik?”

  “Not understand!” he blurted. “I obey Timur orders. He tell Jamshid –”

  “Ah! Tho it ith the Over-Malik you are afraid of, yeth?”

  “Yes!” he gasped, before denying it with equal force. “No!” As he raised his eyes to hers, his great, ugly, scarred face twitched like a sleeping dog. “Jamshid lost!” he wailed, almost pitifully. “Not understand nothing!”

  Seeing he was out of his depth emotionally and intellectually, Xsani had a decision to make. Dispense with him or keep him to control the Grozny? She opted for the latter, binding him tighter to her with what she hoped would be a powerful pact. They would not tell Timur about his failure – his running away would be their own little secret.